


after a storm

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cas overshares, Castiel in the Bunker, First Kiss, Fix-It, Human Castiel, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Season 9, casturbation, poor sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4293300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite Zeke’s threats, Dean doesn't tell Cas to leave the bunker. He revels in their burgeoning relationship, content to end his day with Cas asleep on his shoulder, even if they'll always sleep in separate rooms. Cas is it for him. But when Cas begins to experience physical urges he can't control, he asks Dean for a hand—metaphorically, and later, literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after a storm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Destiel Forever Fanfic Challenge](https://www.facebook.com/groups/115057981983004/?fref=nf) (full prompt in end notes)
> 
> Beta read by [Vera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera), [consultingcas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcas), [starsandgutters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters), and [whelvenwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings).
> 
>  **Caution:** This includes mentions of canon events through 9.03, including April.

 

Cas is eating quietly in the war room with a rapt expression, and for the first time since Dean bought a box just to spite Sam, he doesn’t feel so bad about the freezer chock full of burritos. He watches Cas from a stealth position behind a column, arms folded over his chest, nausea churning his gut. Cas closes his eyes with each bite and chews like he’s never tasted food before—which, right. He hasn’t, not the way Dean tastes things, anyway. But it’s funny that Cas is however many millennia old, literally watched humanity crawl out of the mire, and thinks frozen burritos constitute the height of gustatory pleasure.

Dean’s amusement is short-lived. Why the hell didn’t Zeke say something on the drive home from Detroit? They could’ve headed up to South Dakota and dropped Cas off with Jody for a few weeks. Why did he wait until they were back in Kansas and the knot in Dean’s stomach was starting to uncoil because Cas was safe, bumming around in Dean’s old sweatshirt, food tucked in his cheek like one of those damned guinea pigs he’s always on about?

Dean would get him one, if he asked. He’d get him one with a fancy enclosure, multi-colored plastic sections and all those tunnels.

What makes it worse is Dean _wants_ him here, and he’s pretty sure Cas wants to be with him, too. But he won’t risk Sam’s life. Dean’s done a lot of shitty things over the years, but marching up to Cas and telling him he can’t stay? Yeah, that one takes the proverbial cake. It takes the whole godforsaken baked-good industry.

Cas’s face is one of a man gutted. Dean recognizes that one, the haunted expression he bore fresh from Purgatory. It began to leach from him again as he eased the sleepless nights with alcohol and waited for a word, any word, from Cas—the same gray cast to his skin and bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, as if Purgatory itself oozed out of his pores, staining him in monotone.

God knows Cas has been through worse, did his damndest just to survive, just to _get_ to them, and now Dean’s booting his ass out without explanation when he’s only been here a couple hours. Well, A+ job, Dean. Some fucking hero you are.

He almost hurled when he watched Cas die in that apartment, knowing he’d been too late. Ganking that reaper a thousand times over can’t erase the sight of her driving a blade into Cas’s chest or the sound of Dean’s voice trembling his name. Cas’s lifeless face still flushed between Dean’s palms. Lips Dean would never kiss.

Just a few seconds. He only needed a few more seconds, and Cas wouldn’t have—

If he’d run that light, cut off the semi-truck, he would’ve gotten there in time to stop her.

If it hadn’t been for Zeke, Dean would be laying an armful of lilies on Cas’s grave instead of ticking down a mental checklist, preparing to send him out into the world.

Despite Zeke’s threats, Dean can’t stomach the thought of Cas walking out of here. Not even knowing he’d be okay with a fake ID, a couple cards with a cushy limit, new cell phone with Dean’s number first on speed dial. It’s not enough. Despite eons of observation, Cas has no idea how to be human—it’s the difference, Dean supposes, between having an ant farm and being shrunk down to their level.

 _You can’t stay_.

His words echo in the tense silence between them.

“Not in here,” he amends, waving a clumsy arm around the war room. Cas is still chewing that freaking burrito, lips shiny with grease. “We should get you set up in your own room.”

Cas blinks, taking a second to swallow and process, but he gets to his feet.

“Dean, thank you,” he says. Quietly. Gratefully. There’s a tremor in his chin before he dips his head. His face is pale. Dean’s probably is too. “For a moment, I thought you were asking me to leave.”

The sick feeling in Dean’s gut is guilt. He wants to rip the Band-Aid off, come clean about Ezekiel and the trials and the extent of the damage they did to Sam, but he doesn’t. He slings an arm around Cas’s shoulders and guides him toward the hall, Cas held firmly against his side, swaying into him as they walk the gauntlet of doors.

Dean tells him to pick one. Cas selects the room across from Dean’s and steps inside with awe.

“Get some sleep,” Dean tells him. He shuts the door. He’ll tell him tomorrow.

* * *

Tomorrow comes, but Dean doesn’t confess. He doesn’t tell Cas tomorrow or the next day, but he finds soft flannel sheets for the full-size bed in the room Cas selected. He finds a spare blanket and an old pair of jeans and donates his extra pillow.

It’s surprisingly easy to avoid a run-in with Zeke. As long as he’s got Cas with him, Zeke keeps his distance, leering at Dean between blinks but otherwise dormant.

It’s no chore to keep Cas with him. He sticks by Dean at breakfast and follows him to the dungeon to check on Crowley and out to the garage when Dean works on the Impala. He poses question after question that Dean answers with all the patience he can muster—should he drink every time he feels thirsty? How much water is too much? Would it be more practical to carry a canteen because the sensation of dry mouth is, and Dean’s quoting, “about as pleasurable as Michael’s sense of humor”?

Sammy used to rattle off questions like this, when they were little.

“You wanna know something, you ask,” Dean grunts, scrounging around the lower kitchen cabinets for a water bottle that he fills to the brim. Cas drinks and screws up his face and prepares a new onslaught of questions.

He finds the stash of frozen burritos and nukes a couple in the microwave for lunch, serving them on plates like a real damn meal. He calls Dean to the table where they eat like a couple people who eat together all the time.

Dean doesn’t struggle to fill the quiet moments. They’ve known each other long enough that silence between them is comfortable. It’s a nice change, eating with Cas instead of Sam and Kevin’s collective geekery; to nudge Cas with his elbow and laugh at nothing specific, giddy because Cas is here with him, glancing at him shyly every few seconds before smiling down at his plate.

Dean knows what those looks mean and why his stomach flutters whenever Cas’s eyes fix on him. He refuses to put a name to it. Naming something makes it real. If it’s real, it can be taken from him; but if it remains this nameless, unspoken thing developing between them, he can have it.

So he revels in it. He stays up long after Sammy and Kevin go to bed, huddled on the couch with Cas tucked against his side, a blanket draped over both of them. Cas isn’t naïve—Dean’s pretty sure he knows what they’re doing. And Dean likes what they’re doing, no matter how little time they might get to enjoy it. He sits with Cas long after the good shows are over and infomercials dominate the lineup. He watches them on mute. Cas falls asleep on his shoulder every night, and Dean lets his arm go numb behind Cas’s neck. The water bottle is a fixture on the coffee table.

Cas watches, fascinated, as Dean shaves in the morning. Dean shows Cas the correct way to guide a razor over his skin. He indulges in the way Cas thrills over dispensing shaving cream and lathering it in his palm, and he winces the first time Cas nicks himself. Dean applies a bit of toilet paper and gives Cas a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder as the little white square colors red.

His hand lingers. Cas doesn’t say anything. Encouraged, Dean slides it to the back of Cas’s neck. Cas’s face is suffused with pink, eyes dark and curious. He watches Dean touch him in the mirror. He breathes through his mouth, lips just parted. When he opens them fully to speak, Dean squeezes his neck once and drops his hand.

He doesn’t kiss him. He’s not sure if they’re ready for that, if Cas can process it after what that reaper did to him. Dean’s not sure what he thinks of sex or how he thinks of it—if he thinks of it at all. Dean’s no better than she is if he makes Cas think staying here hinges on that, so he doesn’t make a move.

But Cas isn’t out of reach. Being able to see him, touch him, breathe him in—it diffuses his desire, like heat lightning that crackles through his veins and suffuses him with contentment. They might never reach a point where he can lower his mouth to Cas’s and kiss the exhaustion from his face, but if he can end his days like this, with Sammy dozing in an armchair and Cas’s head heavy on his shoulder, hands balled in Dean’s shirt, he could be happy.

* * *

He avoids Zeke for three days. He wastes most of one packing Kevin into the Impala and driving him seven hours to Branson, where he can translate the tablet in peace for a few days. Dean leaves him holed up in a warded motel room with one of the good cards on file. He tells Kevin to watch some porn, ruffles his hair until Kevin scowls, then heads into town for a burger and fries before driving home.

Around midnight, he notices Sam pull up stiffly into his shoulders. Zeke catches Dean’s eye and seethes from the adjacent chair, but Cas is mumbling against Dean’s shoulder. Zeke flashes his displeasure and goes out.

Dean’s luck runs dry on the fourth morning when Zeke corners him outside the bathroom a little before six. The hall’s quiet. Sam and Cas are probably still asleep. Dean was planning to take a quick piss and jerk it before coffee, but Zeke flickers into Sam’s eyes and looms furiously over Dean.

“He was supposed to leave.”

“I’m working on it,” Dean hisses. “I can’t just kick the guy to the curb.”

“As long as Castiel is here, I am in danger.”

Even if Zeke was right and Cas did pose some threat to him, he’s warded. So that reaper managed to find him in Detroit—fair point, but Cas was on his own then. He’s with them now. With the bunker’s hoard of enchantments, it’s inconceivable that Heaven or Hell or another rogue reaper could track him. As far as Dean can tell, Zeke’s blowing smoke.

“He doesn’t have his mojo,” Dean challenges, careful to keep his eyes wide, tone neutral. Non-threatening. “I’m telling you, you can’t get much safer than this place. No one’s gonna find you here.”

Zeke stills, clenching Sam’s jaw until a muscle jumps. _Ha_ , Dean thinks smugly. _Gotcha, asshole_.

“You cannot tell him about me,” Zeke warns after a minute

“No talking about the angel I’m letting hitch a ride in my kid brother. No shit, Sherlock.”

“Is this humorous to you?”

“Yeah, it’s frigging hilarious. Now if you don’t mind, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

He shoves past Zeke into the bathroom and groans in relief when he gets his boxers open. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes. The tile floor is cold. Dean forgot his slippers next to the bed. He’s running on three hours of sleep. He and Cas sat up until the only thing on was an ad for some bullshit non-sudsing shampoo, but his body’s lost the ability to sleep past seven. Yawning, he goes to the sink to wash his hands, scrubbing at the grease around his nail bed when he hears a cry from the shower room.

Cas? What’s he doing out of bed this early?

Dean shuts off the water and listens, but he doesn’t hear the sound again. The quiet sends a wave of panic through him—is Cas hurt? What if he’s been calling for Dean, who hasn’t heard him because the walls in this place are so thick?

“Cas, you okay?” he calls out and walks toward the sound.

Cas is in the shower room and the water is running. He probably slipped and fell on the damn concrete. Dean knew they ought to put down a couple of those non-slip things. He expects to find Cas sprawled out on the floor with a couple new bruises. He doesn’t expect to find him with his forehead pressed to the tile wall, a hand between his legs. Dean stands in muted shock in the doorway for a moment while he processes what he’s seeing.

Cas is naked. Water streams down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs. His skin is blotchy red from the heat and water pressure. Steam curls from the shower floor. Desire curls in Dean’s stomach. Cas’s face is angled just slightly to the right, so Dean is able to see that his mouth is parted and his eyes are closed. Cas’s right arm moves in a rhythm Dean knows well: slow, steady pulls.

Cas is—right. Cas is jerking off. Shit. _Shit_. Abort mission.

He backs away, but he nearly wipes out on the wet floor and curses as he rights himself. Cas’s eyes flutter open.

“Dean?”

“Oh! Hey, sorry, man—” Dean stammers and hightails it out of the bathroom, for the sanctuary of his bedroom where Cas definitely isn’t rubbing one out.

He makes the bed. He pulls the sheets taut and props the pillows up against the headboard in two rows. He tosses yesterday’s clothes onto the laundry pile. He arranges a stack of books next to the bed, careful to line the edges up with the edge of the nightstand. He tries not to think about what he just saw or his own reaction to it and fails on both accounts, but the order helps a little.

There’s a knock on the door. His heart pounds uncontrollably fast.

“Yeah,” he calls too loudly—forced ease. He isn’t sure whether he should sit down or remain standing, so in a pinch he picks up a book and thumbs through it, the fan of pages releasing a puff of dust.

Cas strides in dressed in jeans and Dean’s hoodie. He’s flushed from the shower, the color gorgeous in his cheeks.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he says plainly. It’s clear from his tone and the way he holds Dean’s gaze that he isn’t embarrassed or bothered by it at all, which makes Dean feel marginally better about the intrusion.

“Nah, it’s cool,” he waves off.

“I didn’t think anyone would be awake. This body is...unruly, at times. I find touch relaxes it. And the water helps.”

Oh god, Cas is actually talking about jerking it. They’re talking about Cas’s dick. Dean presses his lips together and nods without looking at him. He can’t look at Cas without picturing him in the shower.

“Well, that’s. That’s good.” Dean clears his throat and ignores the burn in his cheeks. He sets down the book. “If you get your hand real soapy, it’ll, uh. Reduce the friction.”

Cas breaks into a smile. Dean sees it from the corner of his eye. “I’ll try that,” Cas says, like they’re swapping recipe tips. “Would you like coffee? I was going to make a pot.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Cas looks at him warmly before closing the door.

The conversation leaves Dean reeling. Cas spoke about his body the way he did when it was just a vessel, instead of a thing that’s connected to him. He accepted no ownership of his arousal, just took care of it, like you might walk a dog. Maybe his body’s just going into overdrive now that an angel’s at the helm, and Cas is riding out the storm.

It’s too early for this. Dean needs a caffeine IV.

Coffee drips into the pot when he steps down into the kitchen. Two mugs wait on the table. Cas is standing at the counter washing dishes. Dean feels betrayed by the sound of running water.

“Sam is still asleep,” Cas says, glancing to Dean over his shoulder. He dries his hands. He takes milk from the fridge and gets out a bowl for cereal. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure.”

Cas pours twin bowls with the same pride he shows when he microwaves burritos. He slides Dean’s bowl in front of him and passes him a spoon.

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs. It’s nice, Cas taking care of him. Taking care of Cas.

They eat quietly and drink their coffee, and when Cas reaches for Dean’s hand and laces their fingers together on top of the table, next to their empty cereal bowls in the silent kitchen, Dean can almost pretend this morning didn’t happen.

* * *

But it happens again two days later. Dean makes coffee and pads down the hall in sweats and socked feet to wake Cas. He knocks twice before opening the door, careful not to turn the knob until he’s positive that he heard Cas call, “Come in.”

He’s lying on his back with the sheet just to his waist, one knee drawn up so his foot is flat on the bed. One hand rests lazily on his chest, on his sternum, like he’s been caressing himself; the other is concealed beneath the sheet. It’s not moving, but it’s obvious what Cas was just doing.

“Good morning,” Cas says like Dean didn’t just walk in on him again, like he isn’t still touching himself.

“Uh.” Dean stoops awkwardly in the doorway. He really ought to leave or apologize, but what comes out is, “There’s coffee.”

Yawning, Cas stretches his arms up over his head. “I’d like to sleep some more.”

Dean’s mouth is dry. “Sure,” he says.

Cas’s eyes are endearingly puffy and his hair is flattened on the left side of his head from being crushed against the pillow. He’s smiling. Watching Cas lie in bed and smile at him is suddenly the most natural thing in the world. Dean forgets why he came in here, can’t think past the erratic fluttering in his chest or how loud it sounds every time he swallows. Cas slides his foot down the mattress so his legs are both straight and rolls onto his side.

He pats the space next to him.

Dean hesitates, then shuts the door and crosses the dark room. It conceals the trembling in his hands and the pinprick burn in his neck and cheeks. The mattress dips under his weight when he kneels on the edge, tipping him forward into Cas.

He wraps his arms around Dean, pulling him down onto the bed, and hums against his shoulder. He’s groggy and warm and smells so damn good that Dean spends a few minutes just breathing him in. Cas is naked but for the sheet, solid and muscular and letting Dean hold him. Holding Dean. Dean’s body immediately responds. He’s aroused within seconds, but he only allows himself to kiss the top of Cas’s head, run a hand over his bare shoulders. He moans when Cas tugs a hand through Dean’s hair, keeps still and holds Cas’s scent in his lungs.

They fall back asleep—it’s easy to sleep with Cas in his arms—and Dean only wakes up because Sam knocks on the door.

“Hey, guys?” he asks, poking his head inside, like he expected them both to be in here. He doesn’t appear surprised to see them together in the rectangle of light from the open door. It falls across the bed, revealing Cas naked to the waist, wrapped around Dean’s torso and snoring. It’s not like Dean can retcon his brother and erase the last ten seconds, so he doesn’t untangle himself, just lifts his head and frowns over Cas’s hair.

“What?” He prays that Sam can’t see how red his face is.

“I’m running into town for groceries. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good,” he says, voice slurred. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.” Sam raps his knuckles on the door jamb. “Go back to sleep. We don’t have anything today.”

They sleep for another hour before Cas stretches himself awake, absently rubbing his erection against Dean’s thigh. Dean sucks in a breath and shivers.

“Oh,” Cas says, easing his hips away. “It does that when I wake up.”

“Yeah, uh. That happens.”

“To you?”

“Mhm. Means you were having good dreams.” Dean pats his shoulder, rubbing a soothing circle with his thumb. He scrapes his tongue over his teeth to clear away the taste of sleep. Cas’s skin is soft. “Nothing to worry about.”

“It’s persistent.”

Dean laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I was dreaming about you,” Cas tells him, nuzzling closer. He tucks his head under Dean’s chin, shoulder wedged beneath his arm. Dean holds him tighter and chokes a little on his spit.

“Well, I’m, uh...” he stammers. “Okay.”

“This is usually when I take care of it. Do you mind?”

“Do I mind?” Dean repeats, his drowsy brain slow to catch up.

“I’m not going to shower this morning,” Cas explains.

“Oh!” Dean says, sitting up. He already regrets the distance between them. He rolls his head side to side and swings his feet to the floor, leaning forward to stretch his back until it cracks. “Sorry. Yeah, man. I’ll give you some space.”

Cas closes a hand around Dean’s forearm, the touch gentle but enough to still him.

“Would you tell me if I’m doing it right?”

Cas can’t possibly be asking what Dean thinks he just heard. He mulls over the question for a few seconds, licking his lips while he considers how to respond. He can’t afford to be wrong about this.

“What, you—you want feedback on your technique?” he clarifies.

“If it’s not asking too much. Your soap suggestion was excellent.”

Dean stares down at him for a long time in the dark. Kids the world over figure out how to play with themselves; a couple weeks of fumbling and Cas would medal in the masturbation Olympics. He should reassure Cas that he’d be fine working things out on his own, but he selfishly wants to experience this with Cas—to be part of the _reason_ Cas feels good, even if it’s just as an observer.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Sure,” and lowers himself back to the mattress. He props his head up on an arm and keeps his other hand jammed beneath the pillow.

“Should I start?” Cas asks, just inches from Dean’s side but no longer touching him. Dean nods instead of answering, afraid he might swallow his tongue.

Cas rolls onto his back. The sheet lifts away from his chest when he adjusts his hand and settles it between his legs. He begins with a slow up-and-down rhythm, an almost innocent exploration of his body. It reminds Dean of being a kid: rubbing against a borrowed mattress, figuring out what feels good in a rundown motel shower. Cas has his eyes closed, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He exhales through a parted mouth that Dean could kiss if he moved over six inches.

Cas’s motions are mostly hidden by the sheet. Dean’s voice comes out throaty.

“I can’t...I can’t really see what you’re doing. You okay if we pull the sheet back?”

With his free hand, Cas rearranges the sheet so that his body is exposed to mid-thigh. The only light in the room is from the LED panel on the alarm clock, but it’s enough to see Cas’s fist around his cock, the wiry thatch of hair at its base, a drop of liquid pearling at the tip. He’s cut, not too long but thick enough to choke on. Dean wonders what color the head flushes, if it’s pink like his or darker, maybe deeply purple. He shudders at the thought of putting his mouth on Cas, becoming addicted to his taste, of his lips stretched around him.

“You can, uh. Try turning your wrist a little on the upstroke,” he murmurs, staring down the plane of Cas’s chest and stomach. “Twist it—yeah, like that.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Cas breathes. Pride hammers in Dean’s chest.

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” The lines on Cas’s forehead ease. His other hand plays across his chest, tracing a light path over his collarbone. Dean takes a sharp breath.

“The—the head’s real sensitive.” He clenches his fist under the pillow, blunt fingernails digging into his palm. The discomfort grounds him. “You wanna pay attention to it. Use your thumb and—see how it’s all slick?”

Cas nods rapidly and swirls his thumb clockwise. He tilts his head back into the pillow, gasping, which exposes his throat, the swell of his adam’s apple. Dean fantasizes about licking it, latching onto Cas’s neck and claiming him with a bruise, whispering into his ear until Cas comes. But he stays still, hard and leaking against his own hip, and watches Cas’s smooth, even pulls.

Dean licks his lips. “You can use your other hand to, uh. Some guys like their balls touched. You can kinda roll them in your palm. Or, sometimes I—” Jesus, he’s really doing this. “I put a little pressure right here.”

He touches Cas clinically, about an inch above the base. He presses down just long enough that Cas gets the idea. His pubic hair is dark and wiry, a little rougher than Dean’s. Cas replaces Dean’s hand with his, maintaining pressure on the spot Dean indicated. His eyes are screwed shut. He’s panting in staccato, breathy sounds in time with the movement of his hand. Dean futilely palms himself, clenching his jaw, and thrusts his hands back to their neutral position under the pillow.

“You can get off like that, but if you wanna go faster, lube helps. I’ll get you some. Or you can lick your hand. It’s not as good but it works.”

At Dean’s suggestion, Cas licks twice from the base of his palm to the pads of his fingers, then resumes stroking. His resulting groan is guttural. Dean nearly comes from the sound.

“Dean, it feels...” Cas moans, arching his back. His stomach hollows out beneath his rib cage. Dean wants to bite the tattoo on his side. “I’m going to—”

Cas comes on his stomach and Dean exhales in relief. He pants, dropping his head next to Cas’s on the pillow. Cas’s face is angled toward the ceiling, mouth open. His eyes are still closed. Dean nudges Cas’s temple and wills his erection to go down. It’s a heavy, throbbing weight between his legs. He’s close, but he keeps his focus on Cas. He breathes.

Cas still has a hand on his cock, softening in his palm. There’s a mess on his stomach. Dean should get up for tissues, but he’s happy to pant against the side of Cas’s face.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cas says, smiling. He reaches out blindly with his clean hand. Dean lets him link their hands together against Cas’s hip and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his eyebrow.

Dean’s not sure what to call what just happened. They didn’t have sex, but they didn’t _not_ have sex, either. He watched Cas get off, and now he’s participating in post-orgasm cuddling. It’s—it’s awesome, even if his balls are gonna be sore and Cas’s groans will play on a loop until the next apocalypse.

“Good,” Dean murmurs against his temple. He licks his lips and chases the taste of salt from Cas’s skin.

* * *

When Sam comes home with a sad potted plant he got for a dollar because it’s sporting a look Dean terms “Purgatory chic,” Cas becomes a gardener.

Dean’s nervous to let Cas go outside, so he follows him up with a small arsenal. Cas clears a two-foot plot out of sight from the road while Dean keeps watch. He scoops soil away with his hands and gingerly removes the plant from its pot, then places it in the hole. He tumbles soil in around it and pats it into place with a look of satisfaction.

He pulls weeds while Dean watches, consulting a guidebook Sam found for him. After an hour, there’s dirt beneath his fingernails and smudged on his cheek. The only interruption is Sam popping up to ask what they want for lunch. Cas asks for a sandwich and a container of water for the plant.

Sam brings it, and he stands sentry while Cas waters the thing—it’s a Gerber daisy, according to the tag. Cas visits it every morning after that and waters it with his mug once he’s finished his coffee.

Dean feels strange following him outside every time, but it’s necessary. Zeke might not be willing to bring him back again if something happens. This is the Winchester family. Something always happens. And Cas is...well, he’s as good as a Winchester now.

 _Castiel Winchester_. Dean ought to get him an ID with that name for the hell of it.

As it turns out, Dean’s concern and mother henning aren’t necessary this week. The worst injury Cas sustains is another nick while he’s shaving, just at his jaw line. Dean soothes the cut with his thumb, easing it along the remaining stubble on Cas’s chin to brush the corner of his mouth. Cas gasps. Dean wants so badly to kiss him, to fit their mouths together and feel connected for a while. Nothing heavy, no tongue, just the soft pressure of Cas’s mouth. He wants to bear Cas onto the bed and map every inch of him with his lips and teeth, but he restricts himself to the barest motion of his thumb dragging across Cas’s lip.

Cas shudders and shuts his eyes, angling his face away. Dean, panicked, leaves the bathroom in a fog and finds Sam bent over a book. Cas goes outside to water the plant by himself. Dean watches him ascend the stairs and jumps when the door thuds closed.

With Dean and Sam left alone with only ghost stories between them, Zeke flickers into being across the table.

“I grow tired of waiting.”

“If having Cas here was gonna be such a problem for you, how come you didn’t say anything while we were on the road?”

“You test my patience.”

“I want you to be straight with me, cause he told me you’re an upstanding guy. _Angel._ ” Dean shakes off a frown. “You got a beef with Cas? What’s the deal?”

“The deal is that he leaves, or I do.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Dean quips, calling his bluff. “Funny how you’re both still here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look. If you really felt threatened by Cas, you would’ve left already. You want to tell me the real reason you don’t want him around?”

Zeke places both palms on the table and pushes to his feet. Dean lifts his chin in challenge.

“I will let Sam die.”

“See, that’s the funny thing,” Dean says, tilting his head toward his shoulder. “I don’t think you will.”

Zeke, with Sam’s face cranked up to homicide-level red, circles to Dean’s side of the table. Dean’s heart beats erratically as he decides on the best weapon to take down an angel without harming his brother. It arrives in the sound of the outside door reopening. Cas tromps downstairs. Zeke fucks off. Sam blinks, stumbling forward two steps, and stops.

“I—I have no idea why I stood up.”

“You were getting me a refill,” Dean says, tapping his emptying mug. Sam stares at it blankly. Dean grins in Cas’s direction but is hesitant to look at him. He trains his eyes on Cas’s jeans. “How’s she look?”

“There’s new growth,” Cas reports, pulling out the chair next to Dean. He side-eyes the coffee. Dean passes him the dregs, glad Cas isn’t still upset about earlier.

“I’m heading to the kitchen,” Sam announces. “Cas, you want your own cup?”

“Yes, thank you,” Cas exhales with gratitude, grimacing over the bitter remains. He slides the cup away.

When Sam’s gone, Dean nudges Cas’s leg under the table.

“Hey,” he mutters.

“Hello.” Cas nudges him back and leaves his leg pressing against Dean’s, denim slightly warm from the sun. “What are you doing today?”

“Sammy found a possible case—something small, so we won’t be gone long. Thought I’d get the car packed, in case it pans out. You got anything you need washed?”

“I’ll help you.”

“With the laundry or the case?” Dean prompts.

“Both,” Cas says, studying his hands. “I don’t have the power I used to, but my memories are intact. I can still be useful, Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean turns toward him and clasps Cas’s shoulder. He jabs an index finger toward his face. “I’ve never had any powers and I’ve been hunting my whole life. You’ll be fine. Capiche?”

Cas raises his head, eyes a calm blue. The sky after a storm. Dean is mesmerized.

“You’ll let me hunt with you?” Cas asks, squinting like he believed Dean would leave him behind.

“Yeah, if you want.” Dean knocks Cas on the jaw, dragging his knuckles over Cas’s cheek. It’s smooth. He finished shaving on his own. “Still got your badge?”

Cas grins his satisfaction into the coffee Sam brings for him.

* * *

He poses the question over a load of bloody jeans. They’re better suited for a burn pile, but Dean is using them as an example. He shows Cas how to sort dark fabrics from the bleach load, and explains that leaving a red shirt in the mix will stain the whole load pink.

“Alright,” Cas says. He nods.

“We don’t _want_ them pink,” Dean clarifies when he realizes Cas looks enthusiastic. “No pink. Unless it’s Sammy’s clothes.”

“Ah.”

Chuckling, Dean guides him through measuring enough detergent for a full load. Cas presses the button to start the washer. Beneath Dean’s hand, it begins to rumble and hum as it fills with water.

“Think you can handle it next time?” he asks.

“I commanded armies many millennia before you were born,” Cas reminds him. Though there’s no edge to his tone, his following laughter rings melancholy. He picks up the empty laundry basket and holds it against his hip.

“Touche.”

“I’m going to take a _shower_.” He’s careful to emphasize the last word, so Dean can’t possibly misunderstand what Cas is actually saying. The washing machine sprays water. The sound conjures an image of Cas against a tile wall.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, cupping a hand over the back of his neck. “You don’t need to tell me every time you’re gonna...shower.”

Cas holds his gaze, unfazed. “I hoped you would take it with me.”

Dean’s mouth parts. He wets his lips and blinks several times before replying, “As your jerk-off coach?”

“I thought you could shower too,” Cas says, uncertain but playful.

“You wanna...” Dean tries, mentally tripping over Cas’s suggestion. Detergent drools from the mouth of the container. He wipes it with a finger and replaces the cap. “At the same time?”

Watching was one thing—it wasn’t about Dean. It was about making Cas feel good. But if Dean gets off with Cas in the room, he’ll always want to get off with Cas in the room, and that could be a problem.

He cleans his hand on his jeans, rolling the seam between his thumb and the side of his index fingers while he thinks.

“Is that alright?” Cas asks with a frown.

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. I’m just making sure that’s what you meant.”

Cas, a smile playing on his lips, steps into Dean’s personal space. He sets down the basket and loops his arms around Dean’s waist, leaning in against his shoulder.

“Being human is less frightening when I’m with you,” he murmurs into Dean’s shirt.

Dean shivers and drops a chaste kiss to his hair. Cas smells like sunlight, if that’s even possible.

They walk to the shower room. Cas shucks his clothes without ceremony. He nods toward the shower and disappears around the corner. Dean stalls, toying with the buttons on his shirt as he listens to the pipes groan and squeal, the tapdance of water on the tile floor. He gets naked and tries to remain clinical about what’s going to happen, wasting another minute by folding his clothes into a neat stack.

Cas is washing his hair when Dean joins him. The lather is abundant, slipping down his neck and chest. Coiling at his ankles. His hair sticks up in all directions, white tipped like ocean waves.

“Use enough shampoo?” Dean asks, switching on the adjacent shower. He wets his hair and swipes a handful of lather from Cas’s head, scrubbing it into his scalp. He rinses and squeegees his face with two index fingers to clear the water from his eyes, then adjusts the shower head so it hits him square in the chest.

He grabs a bar of soap and tries not to think too much about Cas being naked next to him, but his dick takes notice and perks in response. He washes his body, turning his back politely to wash between his legs while Cas works the last of the shampoo from his hair.

So he’s going to jerk off. And Cas is going to jerk off. They’re going to jerk off together and Dean has no idea what that means because Cas turned away when Dean thought about kissing him. But his dick’s at full attention. He steals a look at Cas over his shoulder and, yeah. His dick’s awake too, flushed a deep rose.

“Pass the soap?” Cas asks. Dean hands him the bar. It’s a miracle he doesn’t drop it because his hands are shaking. He’s shaking and Cas looks perfectly calm and composed.

Cas washes himself efficiently, cleaning between his toes and behind his ears, then lathers the bar of soap in his palm and wraps a hand around his cock.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Dean swallows hard because he thought he might get advance warning before the X-rated portion of the shower, but alright. Yeah. Rock and roll.

He keeps his back to the tile wall and uses his right hand, angling his body just slightly toward Cas so he can see what Dean’s doing. It’s been awhile since he did this with anyone. Lisa liked to watch him sometimes, but that was foreplay and this is...something else.

Cas is touching himself. Dean can hear the soapy-wet slide of his fist. He feels voyeuristic even though he’s doing the same thing and Cas can probably hear it. He sees it. Dean might explode if he looks at Cas, but he chances a sideways glance, gulping when he sees that Cas is turned toward him and that his eyes are open. He watches Dean with parted lips and a blissful expression, close enough that Dean can hear the gorgeous way Cas pants but isn’t able to touch him. He grips himself tighter and pumps his hand, turning his wrist like he taught Cas to do, and lets the water beat on him. He shuts his eyes.

They don’t talk. When Cas groans, Dean’s hips stutter and he bites his lip, focusing on the suction his hand creates. Is this what Cas’s mouth would feel like? Dean shouldn’t think of him like that, but he has a vision of Cas on his knees, hands bracketing Dean’s hips while he takes him deep. Dean thrusts into his hand and it’s Cas’s wet mouth.

A hand settles on his shoulder and Dean’s eyes fly open. Cas’s head is bowed, the hand on Dean’s shoulder steadying him as he twists his hand and whimpers, tipping Dean over the edge. His orgasm punches out of him, buckling his knees. He lets the wall catch his weight, hold him up as Cas presses closer, his wet forehead coming to rest against Dean’s arm. Water sluices over both of them.

He instinctively widens his stance. Cas comes closer, standing between Dean’s legs, and leans into his body. He wraps one arm behind Dean’s neck. It brings their faces together. Dean settles his hands on Cas’s hips, encouraging him by stroking his thumbs over Cas’s hip bones and murmuring.

“You close?”

Cas nods against his forehead. His breath comes in gasps. “Yes.”

“Want you to come for me.”

Cas makes a keening noise, his mouth just an inch away from Dean’s mouth. Dean takes in Cas’s air and promises, “I got you.”

Two more strokes and Cas cries Dean’s name. He slumps against his chest.

Dean spends a few moments catching his breath, reeling in the knowledge that Cas said his name. Cas said _his name_. He strokes a hand down the knobs of Cas’s spine and wraps him loosely in his arms, adjusting the showerhead so the spray avoids Cas’s face.

Cas speaks against Dean’s skin.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I got you.”

He mouths at Cas’s temple, ghosting his lips around the shell of Cas’s ear. He wants to whisper things he’s never whispered to another person. Whatever happens between them, this is it. There will never be anyone else for him.

The realization is humbling and terrifying. He kisses the top of Cas’s head over and over in benediction. His hair tastes faintly of shampoo but Dean doesn’t mind, not when Cas is pliant and perfect against him and every exhalation is a blessing over his collarbone.

Dean almost says it. He almost says it right then: the big L, a word so precious he can scarcely think it, let alone get his mouth to form the word, but it’s on the tip of his tongue ready to spill out.

“You guys decent?” Sam calls from the changing room.

Dean, stiffening, kisses Cas’s head a final time and drops his arms. Cas moves away. Dean turns around to face the wall, planting both palms on the tiles. He rests his forehead between them and wants to scream at the interruption.

“Decent at what?” Cas calls back, apparently unfazed. Dean can hear the confused squint in his tone. Cas shuts off the water to his shower and heads out, ostensibly to get dressed.

Sam, chuckling, comes in with a towel around his hips and turns on the farthest tap. “Hope you saved me some hot water.”

Though he’s naked, Dean is stripped by Sam’s gaze. The water beats him numb.

* * *

The afternoon is awkward. Dean can’t stop his mind replaying the shower: the size and weight of Cas’s hand on his shoulder, that he cried out Dean’s name at his climax. Cas prepares sandwiches for the three of them as if nothing has changed: crunchy peanut butter with apricot jam, cut along the diagonal. There is a plate of sandwiches in the middle of the kitchen table. Dean doesn’t care much for the taste but eats two: an excuse to keep his mouth full and avoid having to speak.

The plate empties. When Sam mentions that he could use a hand with research, Cas volunteers. Dean studies an interesting scuff mark, leaving him with a free afternoon.

He elects to get some air, speeding an hour north into Nebraska on the pretense of a supply run. Weather’s mild and the road isn’t crowded. He keeps her at eighty and lets the wind whip through the car. The stereo is off. Dean is lulled by the hypnotic sounds of the road. Baby holds him up.

The drive clears his head. He stops at an auto body shop for a few quarts of oil and new filters. He grabs a cold beer by himself and gets a six-pack to go—an ale out of Philadelphia with a smart label, some fool boxing with the devil. He snorts and sets the beer in the trunk before heading south.

He files away the location of a pet store he passes on the drive home toward Kansas.

At the table in the war room, Cas and Sam are flanked by foot-high piles of dusty books. The air holds a potpourri of dust and aged paper. The scent grows stronger as Dean descends, keys held one hand and beer in the other. Sam’s attention breaks long enough for him to raise an eyebrow as Dean tromps downstairs, but he’s spared the usual inquisition.

Sam nods toward an empty chair. Dean rolls his eyes but sits down across from Cas, opening a beer on the edge of the table. He feigns interest in the book on top of the nearest stack. The crinkle of paper between his fingers is oddly soothing, but he’s distracted by Cas’s hands, his delicate handling of the book, the tight line of his lips when he’s thinking. Dean follows the line as it twists and pulls apart, forming words that Cas speaks only to himself.

Cas’s hair is getting long. It’s begun to curl at his neck. Dean ought to give him a haircut or maybe take him somewhere to get it done properly. Cas would look sharp with his hair clipped short on the sides and in back. Maybe the stylist would work a little product into it, mess up the front a little. Cas always looked good like that.

Sam pointedly clears his throat.

“What?” Dean snaps. Cas lifts his head. Sam watches him for a moment, his expression flirting with pity.

Dean floods his mouth with beer, picks up the chair, and scoots two feet away. Cas becomes obscured by a column of books. Satisfied, Dean plants both elbows on the table and gets to work, occasionally jotting notes with an unreliable pen. The line skips. He shakes it to help the ink flow, aware the Sam is watching him.

He gives the pen two more shakes and lifts his head.

It isn’t Sam looking back at him. Dean shivers. He forces his eyes down.

* * *

Kevin calls at five in the morning to say he’s ready to come back to Kansas. He says he’s making progress but going stir-crazy being restricted to the same motel room day after day, having to invent excuses every time someone knocks on the door.

“I’m out of clean _towels_ , Dean.” Kevin’s tone is waspish. “The towel I used this morning was soggy. Do you know how much bacteria a towel can hold?”

Dean agrees to come get him.

Cas raises his eyes when Dean, dressed for the road and palming the keys, announces he’ll be back by dinner. He doesn’t offer to come along. Dean doesn’t ask him to. He waves to Sammy while avoiding Cas’s face and says he’ll let them know when he’s on his way back.

Kevin spends most of the ride home sleeping, so Dean plays the radio on low to keep his thoughts corralled. He texts Sam with an approximate arrival time when he stops for fuel at a Gas n’ Sip outside Kansas City. Kevin staggers into the bathroom and emerges with a troubled expression.

“I’m burning my shoes,” he mutters and goes inside to buy hand sanitizer. He lathers his hands liberally and stinks up the car with rubbing alcohol, but at least he keeps his trap shut for the remaining four-hour drive.

Back in Lebanon, after mumbling hello and promising a complete update on the tablet once he’s clean and rested, Kevin retreats to the shower room. Sam fetches him a stack of clean towels and goes to reheat dinner. He and Cas already ate, but Cas sits with Dean while Sam takes a phone call about a haunting in Hutchison. Cas nurses a cup of tea. Kevin pops into the kitchen long enough to house a salad, then goes to bed.

When Dean is halfway through a bowl of spaghetti, Cas announces that he’s tired and is going to bed as well. It hits Dean about as well as indigestion. He makes a fist with his right hand but keeps it concealed under the table. Cas leaves without a glance in his direction. Dean stares sullenly after him. The pasta has no flavor after that.

He lets the dishes soak and sits alone at the table, poring over an automotive magazine and a few credit card offers until Sam rouses him from his funk.

“You want to grab a beer?” he asks, jingling the keys from the kitchen door. He’s got his jacket on, both eyebrows raised expectantly.

There are four beers in the fridge, but Sam hasn’t been out of the bunker in weeks except for his morning runs and the odd grocery trips. Dean’s beat, but he owes Sam a night out. Cas will call or text if he needs anything, and Kevin’s here.

“Yeah, why not,” Dean grunts. Sam’s smile is worth any annoyance.

There’s exactly one bar within a twenty-mile radius around Lebanon and it just happens to have a pool table. Sam orders a couple beers while Dean racks the balls. They play two games for the hell of it. Sam’s better than he used to be but still predictable. Dean wins easily, sinking the eight ball and taking a swig of beer to celebrate. He wipes his mouth on a sleeve.

“So, Cas talked to me,” Sam says, putting his cue in the holder. He motions to a two-top against the wall.

“Okay,” Dean says, pulling out a chair. He sets the beer in front of him and holds it between both palms and does not look at Sam.

“He told me—in great detail, I should mention—all about your activities this week.”

Dean picks at the label on his beer bottle, easing it away from the glass at the bottom left corner. His face is the color of hellfire and just as hot.

“Yeah? And?”

“ _And_ he wanted to know if I thought you were helping him as a friend or if you were interested in something more.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, screwing a fist into his eye.

“I assume you’re finally doing something about your ridiculous infatuation I’ve had to put up with since the two of you met, but I figured I’d better let you speak for yourself.”

Dean sets his teeth. “How’d you leave it with him?”

“I said I’d talk to you. And I made him promise never to tell me details about your sex life again.”

“Awesome.”

Sam looks at him with pity. “He loves you, Dean. You know that.”

Dean frowns at the table.

“Have you ever considered that people leave you because you push them away?”

Sniffing, Dean peels the label the whole way off and lets it fall to the table. It curls into itself.

“So what’s the deal with this haunting? We taking it?” He raises his eyes to Sam, who appears disappointed but hardly surprised by the redirection.

They talk case details for an hour and shoot another round of pool. Two locals stagger up and Dean can’t resist the hustle. He takes $200 off of them before he calls it a night, winking at the taller guy as he tucks the wad of bills into his pocket. Sam drags him out of the bar before things devolve into a fist fight. Zeke doesn’t bother to make an appearance.

Outside their respective rooms, Sam gives him a cloying, sappy look.

“I like that he makes you happy.”

“You’re a goddamn Hallmark movie when you drink, Samantha.”

“You sure that’s the door you want?” Sam retorts, smirking, and disappears into his bedroom. Dean’s rubbing Sam’s toothbrush on his junk the first opportunity he gets.

He remains in limbo for a few minutes, just thinking. The day in the car is catching up to him. He sways on his feet, eyes bleary with exhaustion. He isn’t in the mindset to be making decisions.

He picks Cas’s room.

The door’s not locked. He opens it without knocking and lets his jacket fall to the floor, kicks off his shoes and his jeans, crawling onto the bed in just a t-shirt and boxers. He tentatively rests his hand in the center of Cas’s back, on his bare skin.

His hand shakes. They’ve never spent a whole night together.

“Cas, you awake?”

“Get in the bed, Dean.”

Dean grins into the dark. He pulls back the covers, already warmed from Cas’s body heat, just long enough to slip underneath. They fit together like puzzle pieces: Dean’s knees tuck into the hollow of Cas’s knees, and his stomach and chest press along Cas’s back. Dean kisses the nape of his neck, soft and warm, the short hairs tickling his nose. He drapes an arm over Cas’s side, rocking him firmly back into Dean’s body. With a sigh, Cas folds Dean’s hand in his and brings it to his chest.

“Goodnight,” he whispers. His human heart pounds against Dean’s fist.

* * *

Consciousness creeps in slowly. Dean’s not in his bed—the pillow’s wrong, for one thing. Too flat. And this isn’t his mattress. Definitely innerspring, not memory foam. But it smells like home: like the sport laundry detergent Sam prefers, the green apple shampoo they keep in the shower room. Like Cas.

He hears the muffled, almost-snore of Cas’s breathing and remembers the night before: shooting pool with Sammy. Deciding to be with Cas. The excitement of waking up with him is like Christmas morning in Lawrence when his mom was still alive—that same itch in his arms and legs, begging him to get up. He couldn’t fall back asleep right now if he tried.

He opens his eyes. Cas rolled over during the night and his head is resting next to Dean’s, a mess of dark hair on the pillow. He needs to shave. Dean’s heart races, chest ready to burst just looking at him. He buries his face in Cas’s hair, wrapping both arms around him until Cas squirms awake.

“I can’t breathe,” he complains against Dean’s chest.

Dean squeezes him once and releases him, leaving a hand curved over his waist. “Sorry.” He isn’t sorry.

“Did you sleep alright?”

“Like a baby.”

“That’s a strange expression,” Cas says, covering a yawn. He reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand. “I understand babies wake up frequently during the night.”

“Some do,” Dean says, taking a sip when Cas offers. He swirls it to clean his mouth. “Sammy slept through the night pretty early.”

“What about you?” Cas returns his head to the pillow and seeks out Dean’s hand, lacing them together on the mattress between them.

“Can’t remember, seeing as I was an infant at the time.”

Cas laughs at his mistake and briefly hides his face in the pillow. Dean squeezes his hand, rubbing his thumb along Cas’s index finger until Cas looks at him again.

“Did you have a nice time with Sam?” Cas asks.

“Yeah, it was alright. I made a couple hundred bucks.”

“That’s good.”

“He told me that you two talked. Cas, I—” Dean pauses. “I didn’t want to push things. You’ve been through a lot.”

Cas shifts closer, the mattress bowing from their combined weight. The only thing between them is Dean’s t-shirt. Cas touches his face.

“You’ve made it easier.”

“I swear we’re gonna find a way to get your grace back.”

Cas smiles. He leans in with his eyes open. The kiss is over before Dean has time to process it.

“You’re supposed to close your eyes,” he mutters, but Cas merely smiles broader and strokes his thumb around the outline of Dean’s lips.

“I want to see you.”

They kiss for the second time with their eyes open. It’s strange at first—too intense this close up, too intimate. Cas presses his mouth to Dean’s and holds still, and holds his gaze. Dean’s eyes close on instinct. He struggles to keep them open.

And then it’s not strange at all. It’s the way Cas kisses him. Dean throws himself into it, letting Cas roll him over. Press him back into the mattress. He forces his eyes wide when Cas licks an experimental trail over his lips, when his tongue touches the tip of Dean’s tongue, when he slides his tongue into Dean’s mouth and makes a desperate noise.

Dean places his hands on Cas’s shoulders and on his neck and winds them into his hair. He massages the spot behind Cas’s ears and kisses back—Cas loves him, _Cas loves him_ —and his eyes are open when they sting and go blurry. The guilt bubbles up from his lips.

“I let an angel possess Sam.”

Cas abruptly sits up, rocking back on Dean’s thighs.

“You did what?” he asks and switches on the light.

Dean covers his face with both hands and confesses into his palms. “You remember when Sammy was in the hospital, and I told you an angel came to see him?”

“Ezekiel. You said he was going to heal Sam.”

“Yeah, what I didn’t tell you is that in order to heal him, he had to _possess_ him.”

When Cas doesn’t say anything, Dean peers at him over his fingertips. Cas is scowling at a point on Dean’s chest, eyebrows knit together and his mouth tight.

“Sammy was dying, Cas. I made a split-second decision.”

Cas takes a breath through his nose. “Does Sam know?”

Dean shakes his head and turns his face toward the wall.

“Alright,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “We’ll figure out what to do.”

“There’s more,” Dean says, gulping. He lays a hand on Cas’s thigh to steady himself. Steady Cas. “A couple weeks ago, when I said you couldn’t stay?”

“In the war room,” Cas finishes.

“I _was_ telling you to leave.”

“Oh.” Cas’s whole body wilts.

“Zeke said I had to, said you couldn’t stay, that he’d let Sam _die_ if you did.”

Cas dips his chin. “What made you change your mind?”

Dean squeezes his leg. “You really gotta ask that?”

Sighing, Cas lies down on top of Dean, head pillowed on his chest. He covers Dean’s tattoo with his right hand and gently strokes his shoulder with the other.

“I would never let anything happen to Sam,” he murmurs. “If it means I have to go—”

Dean wraps both arms over Cas’s back, anchoring them together. “Cas, there’s no way I’m letting you walk out of here, not unless that’s what you want.”

“Alright.”

“I mean it. You say the word, I’ll get you anything you need—ID, car, money.”

“I’m not leaving.” Cas lifts his head and kisses Dean firmly, lingering at his mouth. Dean stares into his eyes and some of the tension in his chest dissolves. It ebbs away.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. This place has excellent water pressure. And burritos.”

“Ain’t a bad joint we’re running.” Dean settles a hand on the back of Cas’s neck and sighs. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You were afraid for Sam. I understand.”

“I was gonna kick you out.”

“You didn’t.”

Cas lowers his mouth to Dean’s tattoo, anointing each point of the star with his lips. Dean lets out a breath and cards his fingers through Cas’s hair. He tugs on it, guiding Cas’s face up to his. He kisses Cas’s mouth and his neck, turning him onto his back. Dean kisses his chest and his stomach, stopping just above the warding on his side.

“Did this hurt?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to it.

Cas idly pets Dean’s head. “Yes.”

Dean kisses the tattoo once, then again. “I shoulda been there.”

“You’re not responsible for everyone.”

“Cas—”

“Dean. I won’t pretend that any of this has been easy. I was terrified. I had no idea where I was or how I was supposed to survive. But I knew you would find me. That gave me the will to keep going.”

Dean nods against Cas’s hip and kisses to the edge of the sheet. He lays his head on Cas’s stomach, pressing his forehead and nose into his belly. Cas scratches his fingernails from the crown of Dean’s head to his neck and says, “Don’t stop.”

“You sure?”

Cas snorts, canting his hips to illustrate the tent in the sheet. Dean swallows hard, his mouth cottony. He runs a finger just underneath the edge. He crooks it to teases the sheet back.

Cas’s cock is beautifully full, curving toward his stomach. Dean latches onto it, suctioning his lips around the head and laving it with his tongue. Cas moans. Dean sweeps his tongue from the underside to the tip, swirling it counterclockwise over the head until Cas hisses and tightens his grip on Dean’s hair. Cas tastes like fabric softener and musk and sweat. Dean’s mouth waters.

He goes down on him until Cas orders, “Come up here.”

Dean stretches over him, sensually grinding their hips together and kissing Cas like his life depends on it. He thrusts into the valley between Cas’s hip and thigh, slick with perspiration. Cas’s mouth is open, his skin feverish everywhere it presses against Dean’s skin.

Dean groans and shuts his eyes.

Cas cradles his face in both hands, thumbs stroking tenderly over his cheekbones, fingers pushing back into his hair. “Look at me,” he whispers.

Dean does.

He’s never seen anything like the total devotion on Cas’s face—unwavering, unconditional. There’s a storm in Dean’s chest battering him from the inside, a surge of emotion against his lips. He chokes on Cas’s name. There are so many things he should say right now, needs to say, but if he can’t get closer to Cas in this moment, he’s going to drown.

“Sit up,” he begs.

Cas slides back against the headboard. He straightens his legs in front of him. Dean straddles his thighs, wrapping his arms around Cas’s neck and crying into his mouth when Cas takes both of them in his hand and works them together. His hand is large and hot, slightly damp with spit. His touch is reverent.

“Dean,” Cas says against his lips, whispered like an endearment.

“Don’t stop,” Dean whispers back. “Don’t ever want you to stop touching me.”

He kisses tears from Cas’s face that might be his.

He doesn’t say the words trying to break from between his ribs, but he thinks Cas understands. Dean hopes he does. Cas’s eyes are wide and blue and happy. Dean tells him with his lips instead, vowed in the flavor of salt on his tongue, the pressure of his mouth almost bruising as he tells him over and over and over.

Dean’s in love with him. Dean’s in love with him and he keeps his eyes open.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I had a really, really wonderful time working on this. 
> 
> **Prompt:** (Set in early S9 – Cas does not get kicked out of the bunker) – Cas is newly human and has urges  & experiences in his sleep & in the shower. Dean, awkwardly at first (then more and more progressively enthusiastically) shows Cas the ropes to deal with said urges. Eventually this progresses to their first time being intimate together.
> 
> [fic post on tumblr](http://www.museaway.com/post/123506412890/despite-zekes-threats-dean-doesnt-tell-cas-to) | [inspiration board](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-s9-divergent/)


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